The Librarian

* * *

And in the morning the doorbell rang. Tanya and Marat Andreyevich had arrived. They had kept their promise of the previous day and bought plenty of food. Tanya deftly emptied out the bags. Marat Andreyevich said something in a muted voice and the old man greeted every grocery that was laid on the table by name: “chicken”, “sausage”, “onions”, “potatoes”, “cucumbers”—so that even without getting up, I was acquainted with the contents of the fridge. Timofei Stepanovich loudly approved all the provisions, said goodbye and left me to Tanya Miroshnikova. Marat Andreyevich had only dropped in for ten minutes to help with the shopping bags. After that he would dash off to the clinic.

Sparrows were chirping audaciously on the balcony and there were bright-blue glimpses of sky between the curtains. I had noticed before that sunlight set healing processes to work within me; when subjected to the effects of photosynthesis, my depression of the previous evening would often evaporate.

In one of the neighbours’ apartments a radio splashed out a joyful baritone voice: “A-a-nd the last train again got away from me again, and I wa-alk along the sleepers, a-along the sleepers a-a-again…”

I got up off the sofa and managed to get into my trousers at the third attempt. Marat Andreyevich was sitting in the kitchen, browsing through the newspaper Arguments and Facts. Tanya had dropped a bloodless chicken onto a flat wooden executing block and was already setting about the carcass with a knife.

“You’re awake, Alexei Vladimirovich!” Tanya said with a studied smile. She looked exhausted and older. The purple bruise on her cheek had been painstakingly powdered.

“I hope we didn’t wake you,” said Marat Andreyevich, setting down his newspaper. “How are you feeling, Alexei?”

“I still can’t take in what happened yesterday,” I told him morosely.

Tanya froze for an instant, twitched her shoulders, sobbed and quickly raised one hand to her eyes in an attempt to hold back the tears that hand sprung into them. For a moment it seemed to her that she had mastered her emotions. She leaned down over the chopping board again, but shook her head, apologized and walked out of the kitchen. Water started running noisily in the bathroom sink.

I felt awkward that my cowardly attempt to speak openly about my problems had reduced Tanya to tears. After all, she and the other Shironinites had lost four people who were dear to them.

Tanya came back with her freshly washed eyes still pink from her recent tears. The water had washed off her powder, and the contusion on her cheekbone had turned plum blue.

I still didn’t know how to correct my mistake, but in order to say something at least, I told her:

“Tanya, please don’t address me so formally. There’s no need at all to use my patronymic. Just Alexei, or Lyosha…”

“I don’t agree with you there,” Marat Andreyevich put in delicately. “Respect for seniority is very important for safeguarding relationships, and it has no effect on the quality of friendship. Correctness is not distance: it’s a caring attitude towards the person you’re talking to, like rubber gloves, if you like—to prevent infecting the friendship… Don’t you agree?”

“You’ve worked out an entire philosophy, Marat Andreyevich,” Tanya said with a playful frown, forgetting her tears. “Alexei, how do you like your chicken; tabaka or…”

“You know, Tanya, I hate chicken.”

That clearly upset her.

“You don’t like it?” She glanced helplessly at Marat Andreyevich as if looking for his support. “Why not? It’s delicious…”

“Just the smell of it makes me feel sick…”

Tanya implored me piteously.

“The way I’ll cook it, there won’t be any smell of chicken. I’ll marinade it with garlic!”

“Alexei, imagine that it’s not a chicken but, say, a giraffe’s head,” said Marat Andreyevich, rushing to Tanya’s rescue. “Exotic African meat. Look, here are the horns, and the mouth… See, it looks just like that…”

Tanya laughed, and then Marat Andreyevich smiled too—for the first time in three days.

Several months later I shared these touching memories with Lutsis, saying that my state at the time reminded me of some elements of the cult of Tezcatlipoca, in which the victim chosen by the priests as the earthly incarnation of the god was showered with princely honours and then condemned to slaughter.

Denis took this declaration seriously and even took offence for himself as he was then and for the Shironinites. “Perhaps our attitude to you was like some Indian religious mystery, only with the difference that in the final analysis the priests would have sacrificed themselves, and not the incarnate god.”